by Sally J. Pla
I don’t like getting wet in any possible way. But later, after this Duck ride, which is for me (because they say that sometimes there are eagles on the river!), we are going to a waterpark for Joel and Jake. I’m trying not to think about it. I’m too busy trying not to feel sick from the smells of exhaust, along with a stinky rubbery poncho the lady next to me is wearing, on this hard bench seat.
The Duck rumbles along some bumpy side roads while the guide, who is also the driver, shouts stuff. I’m kind of excited, because I’ve never driven into a river before. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll see that eagle for Dad. I have my eyes peeled. I’m hyper-alert. I’m ready.
“Stop looking like such a dork,” says Joel.
I ignore him.
Our guide’s a big, solid old lady with short gray hair and lots of small earrings up and down her ears. She puts the engine in neutral, then shouts over the noise about what’s going to happen. Like we can’t already figure that out. “This boat you are sitting in,” she yells, “is an original amphibious unit from World War II. Prepare to be amazed, as this incredible vehicle is about to drive into the water!”
We’ve barely prepared our amazement when we lurch forward and kersplash, we’re floating, and the sound of the motor in the back goes from a grrrrr to bloop-bloop-bloop. I look at Davis and she looks at me. The lady in the stinky rubber poncho smiles—I quickly look down. She takes out her phone and twists this way and that to snap photos of the water. Some people are halfheartedly clapping. Why? The boat just did what it was supposed to do.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” says the tour guide, “we will head upriver for a leisurely ride.”
There are about twenty passengers, silent in the morning fog. Everyone’s eyes are on the tour guide.
“Folks, you are riding in a very special vehicle, created in 1942 by General Motors to navigate the harbors of European cities that had been totally obliterated, turned into rubble, in World War II. They needed a way for supplies to be brought from land to boat, and boat to land.”
“Thank goodness things like that don’t happen anymore, eh?” says the rubbery-smelling lady next to me.
I tell her, “But they do. A European city was obliterated in the 1990s. It was Sarajevo. I don’t know about whether they needed boats, though.”
“The vehicle you’re riding in today has a 115-horsepower Cummings diesel engine. The six-wheel drive, ten-speed transmission has a power transfer for water propulsion, and a tiller line connected to the rudder. In fact, if you would all turn around, you will notice that the construction of the Duck’s very special amphibious motor has been raised several inches to accommodate the new higher caliber . . .”
Yada yada yada. Everyone twists around obediently to look behind them at the motor—
Except me. I don’t turn around. My eyes are riveted dead straight ahead.
Right behind the tour guide’s left shoulder where no one else can notice it—because they’re all turned around looking at the engine—is a real, live, bald eagle. I am not kidding. I do not kid. He is there like a sign. Like a symbol. That symbol that he is. He is there for me, and for Dad.
I whisper to Dad, even though I know he can’t hear it: “He’s here! The eagle from our list! He came!”
He is perched on a pine branch overhanging the murky green water, a postage stamp come to life. He cocks his head, showing off his powerful golden beak and a piercing eye. He is a thousand times more fabulous-looking than any photo or drawing. I can see each individual feather overlapping down his velvety brown body. He bends to preen a feather on his shoulder. He looks like the Master of the Universe.
And still, no one sees. Because they are all too busy being interested in the horsepower of the gas engine from 1940 something whatever transmission speed whatever at the back of the boat. Unbelievable.
“The Duck can go fifty miles per hour on land, and six knots on water!” the tour guide exclaims.
“Ooh, uh-huh! Ah!” people say to the cloud of blue motor-smoke back there.
I try to get Jake’s attention, but I don’t want to unlock my eyes from the eagle. And Jake’s looking the other way. I am still the only one who has noticed.
Bald Eagle. CHECK!!!!
You know, it has to be said: bald eagles are not as noble as some people think. They’re kind of lazy and nasty, and would rather steal a fish than catch one themselves. They’ll eat carrion—that means dead animal meat, like roadkill. And they’ll even snack on garbage. They cheat and trick and bully other birds—so in the “appropriate US symbol” department, they come up dubious. In the “cool-looking” department, of course, they score big.
In the “Dad’s Someday Birds List” department, they’re a home run.
The eagle turns his head and glares right at me. Then, he lifts off the branch and disappears back into the woods. There is only the slight sound his wings make:
Luff.
And he is gone.
I would have thought I had dreamed it, if I didn’t see the heavy branch still bobbing up and down from where he was perched. I close my eyes and try to imprint his image on my brain, those thick yellow talons, that head! I want to sketch him later. What is it like to be as strong as that?
“You missed it! There was a bald eagle, right there!” I lean over and tell Davis when the tour lady stops talking.
“Uh-huh,” says Davis. She smiles at me like I just said “Nice weather we’re having.”
“No, really,” I try again. “He was right there! You were all turned around to see the motor.”
“As long as you’re happy, Charlie,” she says.
Sometimes my sister is infuriating.
29
The search for love is mysterious in every species. The thrill of spying a potential mate across either a crowded forest floor—or dance floor—amounts to the same thing: a frisson, the thrill of the approach. The glory, of the possibility of love.
—Tiberius Shaw, PhD
By the time the Duck puts us back on dry land, the sun is coming out, and there are prickles of real heat on our shoulders.
“It’s turning into a scorcher. Real waterpark weather,” says Davis, and the twins jump up and down. I don’t know how they can think about more rides. I’ve had enough movement for a lifetime.
But every time I think about the bald eagle, I get the feeling like I have this thrilling secret. Only I saw him. He saw only me. That was pretty much worth the whole seasick, carsick Duck trip. It was worth it for Dad’s list—and for me, too. Dad would be proud, I think. I can’t wait to sketch him. And to check Shaw’s journal, too, to see if he wrote about eagles.
But first, the waterpark.
It’s gotten really hot. The sky’s a hazy kind of pale blue. This morning’s early mist is history. The sun glares down full force.
Davis is wearing a white bikini top and a pair of really short shorts. Ludmila says, “Why don’t you wear the one-piece I packed for you?” Davis rolls her eyes.
Ludmila is wearing a long black sundress, black high-tops with the toes cut out, a floppy black hat, and dark black sunglasses. She has smeared thick white sunscreen all over her shoulders—and mine, and the twins—so we all smell like coconut custard. The sunscreen feels so sticky and gross, even the twins complain. “It’s better than burning,” Ludmila scolds. Every day, it’s like she acts a little more like Gram.
Davis still doesn’t trust her completely. Last night, after dinner, she opened a zipper compartment in her purse and showed me the flash drive with Dad’s computer files, the one she made when she caught Ludmila snooping in Dad’s office before we left. “I think somebody else in the family should know that I’m holding on to this,” she whispered to me. “Just in case.”
“In case of what?” I asked.
“Of whatever. I mean, just know that they’re here. She’s been acting really nice with us, but what’s her ultimate goal? Why does she care so much about Dad? I still think it was the right thing to do—for me to keep his file
s safe, I mean. Until we know for sure what her deal is. Because we don’t know what Dad was writing when he got injured! What if it’s supposed to be something secret? Even something secret, about Amar? And she’s snooping around? We have to protect Dad.”
I don’t think she’s right about this. But Davis doesn’t listen to what I think.
That was last night. Now, outside the waterpark, I watch Davis swing her purse up on her bare shoulder, and I think about the flash drive in the secret inside pocket. Ludmila puts the bottle of sunscreen away in her purse, and we all walk to the entrance, except the twins, who’ve broken into a run up ahead.
Behind us, in the camper, poor Tiberius is left behind. But he’s parked in the shade, with lots of fresh water. And we plan to take turns on coming back to check on him, every hour.
Up ahead, I see a huge tangle of bright-colored tube slides, and a pool where people are getting hit by a mechanical tidal wave. Joel and Jake head straight for it. Ludmila, her sun hat flopping, follows with our tickets.
Davis has noticed a group of teenagers hanging out at the snack bar. A couple of girls in bathing suits and T-shirts, and some guys, bare-chested and tan, with long shaggy hair. They are sitting on top of a picnic table.
“I’m going to the snack bar,” Davis says.
She goes up and orders, and while she’s waiting, she smiles over at the group. I watch as one of the guys slowly gets up and goes over to talk to her. He puts one hand up on the wall, right above her head and slightly to the right, and leans over her, and they keep talking and smiling. It looks like he’s probably giving her a good view of his armpit hair, but she doesn’t seem to mind it.
I’m thinking of those prairie chicken fire birds. Males go at dawn to a clearing in the prairie grass, something called a lek, and stomp their feet around really loudly. A lot of birds have singing or dancing contests like that. And bower birds in Australia, they actually build whole big houses of woven straw in order to impress their mates. They even decorate the front lawns with shiny, colorful bits of this and that. There’s a picture of that in Shaw’s journal, too.
But all it seems to take for Davis to feel flirty is the sight of muscles and a smile. And maybe armpit hair. Gross.
Meanwhile, Ludmila and the twins are almost at the front of the line.
“Are you coming on the ride, Charlie?” the twins ask me.
“No.”
“Oh really,” says Joel.
“What a shock,” says Jake.
Those guys know how much I hate rides. Then I realize they are being sarcastic. And this makes something flip in my stomach. I am kind of mad. I want to prove to them I can do it. I think about the eagle, about being strong.
“On second thought I’ve changed my mind. I’ll go.”
Jake and Joel just look at me. Ludmila doesn’t say anything; she just rips off another ticket and hands it to me.
I gulp. I’ve gone and done it now. But with one twin behind me and one ahead of me, there’s no way out. With shaky legs, I climb the ladder. It’s as tall as a three-story building. “Come on, Charlie,” my brothers say. “One step at a time!”
Yes—step by step, getting closer to doom.
The attendant hands me a big, slippery rectangle of blue plastic. I am confused. He says, “Look!” and points to Jake, ahead of me, sitting on the plastic, already at the top of the slide with his legs stretched straight ahead of him. How does he just automatically know how to do these kinds of things?
The waterslide is a pitch-black tube that plunges down, twisting and turning, and ends in some kind of abyss where, at the last second, a tidal wave is supposed to knock you over.
And this is considered fun.
My heart is hammering, but I catch Jake looking at me—he gives me a thumbs-up. And Joel, holding his own piece of blue plastic, says, “Hey, Charlie, this is awesome!”
The attendant says, “One, two, THREE!” and pushes Jake into the dark void of the tube. I hear an echo of his scream die away. I am frozen, stuck at the top.
The attendant pushes Joel down the next hole. He is gone. Ludmila is waiting down below. I can see her black floppy hat tilted up at us, tiny as my thumbnail.
The attendant peels my hands away from the sides of the tube. “Sit down here! No, put your legs out. Not that way,” he commands. I’m about to ask where to keep my arms when he counts “ONE-TWO-THREE” really fast and before I can catch a breath, he pushes me. And I am flying down . . . down . . . down . . . into the black mouth of the abyss.
I am going to die.
I slip up onto the curved sides of the tube and back to the center again, in total darkness, careening around and up and down in bewildering directions. I can feel each riveted section under my butt, kathump-kathump-kathump. I am half on, half off the piece of blue plastic. I am in total darkness with no control! No control! I just have to ride this out. My heart is still pounding like a hammer. My breathing is shallow. I am hyperventilating.
Then something catches on the side of my leg. It’s like a hot poker just burned a line along it.
I remember the attendant telling me to keep my feet straight ahead and together, so I do. I concentrate on doing just that, and on breathing. I can’t tell whether my eyes are open or closed; there’s basically no difference.
After an eternity of blind terror, the tube spits me out in a waist-high pool of water. It’s like being thrown out of nothingness and back into the real live world.
Other people are scrambling out of the chutes on either side of me, laughing and screaming. Joel and Jake are screaming, too, laughing and high-fiving each other. They see me and wade over, hopping forward through the choppy water lapping around their board shorts, which are knocked half off them, and they each hold up a hand to slap.
My brothers have never wanted to high-five me before.
Never once that I’ve ever remembered, not once in my whole, entire life.
I put up both my palms, and we slap, make contact—just as a tidal wave hits and crashes us all to bits. It’s like being knocked inside a washing machine. I flounder for a while, and choke and snort water, then I feel a small hand yank me up—it’s Joel. The three of us are back standing up in the water again, and now we are laughing, all three of us together. And my brothers are pushing me out of the wading pool toward the exit.
“Did you see Charlie?” Jake shouts to Ludmila, who is waiting with towels. She is smiling so wide, I can see all of her straight, white teeth. It’s so easy to read her visual cue!
“Charlie did it! He did it!”
Joel and Jake are smiling and laughing. They are happy for me. It’s like they are proud of me! I feel like one of them! I am happy in a way that makes my stomach scrunch, that makes me want to jump up in the air.
Then Ludmila points to my leg. “You’re bleeding, Charlie!”
It’s true. I look down, and there’s a line of blood all along the side of my right leg.
“Jeez, it figures,” says Jake.
And this is a weird thing: before I noticed the cut, it didn’t hurt at all. But the minute I see it, it starts to sting. Bad.
“I thought there was something sharp that poked me when I was going down inside the slide.” I feel myself go pale and wobbly.
“It just figures,” says Jake. “We finally get him to do something fun, and then this happens.”
Blood is starting to run down my leg into my Croc shoe. I start to feel like I am going to faint.
Ludmila roots around in her purse, finds paper napkins, and wraps them tightly on my leg. “Keep pressing. We go find the first aid.”
The twins groan and look around. “Where’s Davis? Can she take us on some more rides while you get Charlie fixed?”
Davis is nowhere in sight. I’m bleeding through the napkins already. My head feels funny and far away. “Sorry, kids,” says Ludmila. “Right now, please, to stay together.”
The little first-aid trailer is not much bigger than Old Bessie. A lady cleans out my cut, and i
t stings like crazy. I yelp and yowl a little bit. She asks about the location of the metal screw that scratched me, but I am deep inside myself and can’t talk, so Ludmila and the twins have to answer for me.
After they patch me up, the nurse says, “When was your last tetanus shot? You might need one.”
Great. More good news.
But they are worried that we will complain or sue them, I guess, so they give us all kinds of free coupons. Free passes to the park, free food vouchers, free admission to Ripley’s Believe It or Not! Museum, and last but not least, a free night’s stay at someplace called the Coyote Holler Lodge. It is the hotel that’s attached to the waterpark.
My leg doesn’t feel too terribly horrible. It’s tingly and stiff, but I guess I’ll live. I think back to the bald eagle, on the water this morning. Maybe he really did transfer some strength to me.
I wait on a lounge chair by the pool, while Ludmila checks on Tiberius, and Davis takes the twins on a few other rides.
You know, it’s weird. Before I got pushed down into that black hole of a ride, I was scared to death I would get hurt. And then: I did get hurt. But getting hurt wasn’t as bad as being afraid of getting hurt. If I had to say what the very worst part of that ride was? I’d say it was the few seconds before I got pushed down the hole.
Weird.
30
As words spill forth from our lips, it is said we murmur. Starlings, those throngs of European immigrants, spill forth across the lip of the sky in their own murmurations, and so they speak to us. A complex system, a grand family of interconnection, they dive and swoop and weave. What are they trying to murmur to us—and each other—as they move across the empty page of the sky?
—Tiberius Shaw, PhD
If you are offered a coupon for a free night’s stay at the Coyote Holler Lodge in compensation for being horribly wounded by a faulty screw in their waterpark slide, it would be crazy not to accept. So after the park, we head right over.
